Fifty Grand (42 page)

The cops reunited us with our cousins, and María told me the details at our grandmother’s house. “Your father is a dirty traitor. He has joined the Yankees in Miami.”

They took Mom to Havana and kept her in a DGI dungeon for a week and then let her out.

She had bruises on her back and thighs.

She never talked about what they did to her. She just got on with things.

The power cuts, the end-of-the-month scramble for food, mending our school uniforms, the TV repairman who would take payment only in dollars . . .

Eventually she got a job as a maid in the Hotel Nacional—one of the best
jobs in Havana because of the tips—and saved enough so that Ricky and I could go to college.

Uncle Arturo denounced Papa in the newspapers and, of course, after that we never went to Santiago again. And nothing came from America. No letters. No money. We heard that he had remarried. He moved from Miami to New York.

And then he disappeared.

Drifted from our lives.

Dissolved, like he was never there.

Vanished like a dandelion on the curve of air.

And that’s all that needs to be said.

He isn’t here.

He isn’t anywhere.

He’s not a character in this story.

He’s a template. A tabula rasa. For me to write my narrative, for me to invent myself.

And now, dying, I understand why I came.

It isn’t for him.

It isn’t for justice.

It’s in spite of him.

It’s for truth.

I am the girl on the beach looking inside a shark for other fish.

I am the sleepwalker awakened. Awakened on the edge of the precipice.

I needed the bullet. I needed the bullet to show me that I want an end to the lies.

You betrayed us, Papa. You didn’t tell us. And I came here to show you that truth is important. The truth wipes everything away. All the forgotten birthdays. All the tears. All the hurt. You enjoyed that other world. The infidelities. The Cuban game. But it wasn’t a game to Mom. Or us. Is that what you liked most of all? The deceit? The deceit more than the conquest.

And now I see deeper still. It’s truth, but also pride. To show you that despite your lack of concern for your family we turned out well, Ricky and me.

Look at the pair of us, doing everything we can to discover who killed you.

Look at us, sticking our toes in the waters of revenge.

Risking everything for you. Dying for you.

I’ll never find out why you left. You had a wife who loved you, two kids, a
good job. You were never a political person. You didn’t care about politics. Why did you jump? Where did you get that gun? I don’t know. All of that information died with you on the mountaintop. But it doesn’t even matter.

Do you hear what I’m saying, Papa?

I didn’t come for you! I’m here for me! I’m here for us!

Cold.

Freezing.

Not the cold of Santiago.

Winter cold.

The cold of frozen water.

Ice.

My mind aswim. Shouting. Gurgling.

Blood in my mouth. Cold grabbing my shoulders like the secret police.

I sink into consciousness.

They’re talking.

Their song swells.

I find that I understand them.

I reshape the world. Gone is the palm tree. The ’izos. Here is the wind, the wet.

Voices.

“Fucking one shot. Blew her the fuck away.”

“We got ninety-nine problems but the bitch ain’t one.”

“Paul, you ok?”

“I don’t think he’s still alive.”

“Get him out.”

“He’s breathing.”

“Get him out and put
her
in the fucking hole.”

“Shouldn’t we call the, the federal authorities?”

“We’re all in too deep for that.”

“I want no part of this.”

“A part of it you have got, a big fucking part. Now shut up. Take his arm. We might be able to save him.”

“Call a helicopter. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

“No hospitals. We’ll get him back to the car.”

“We have to take him to a hospital, for Christ’s sake, man.”

“Listen to me. I’ve got adrenaline and a CPR kit in the prowler, we’ll do this ourselves. We’re fucked if we go to a hospital.”

“Jesus! Wait a minute. Wait a fucking minute. I think she’s still fucking breathing.”

“Is she now? Have you got her gun? Good. Ok, lemme see, lemme—Fuck me, would you look at that, you’re right, all surface, only grazed her.”

“Told you, you should have used the three-oh-oh.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, we’ll soon put a stop to her fun and games.”

I open my eyes. Deputy Klein. He’s holding a 9mm, a meter from my face. There’s a halo of water vapor around his head. He looks like the Angel of Death.

Is that one in your tarot cards, Mother? Did you see that one in your voodoo ceremonies?

Breathing hard.

Grinning.

Excited.

Spittle frozen on the lapels of his coat.

His eyes iron planets. His mouth a gutted fish.

“I don’t know what you wanted, you crazy fucking bitch, but I hope you find it at the bottom of the lake. Say your fucking prayers.”

He lifts the gun, rests his finger on the trigger, takes careful aim, squeezes . . .

I
am copied in your eye, mother of the golden breeze, lady full of grace, lady of the moon. Between ice and the gilt morning. I am copied in the patterns of your stars.

You don’t get two chances. One they’ll give you. But not two. Not at point-blank range. Not so close that you feel the powder burn. Prayers, you say? Well, again it’s that old dilemma. In Cuba the state religion is unbelief. The high-church religion is Catholicism. The street faith is Santería. Who would I pray to? Who would I pray for?

And yet.

A breath escapes. And every breath a petition.

The muscles in his face as taut as a halyard on a sail.

Smile not, friend.

Lillies grow from your mouth. Think not of drinking blood from my skull. Your corpse is food for trout.

Don’t you see her? She is the image in your eye too.

His face relaxes, transfigured by the mystery.

Death has made him special, given him a secret that I do not possess.

A full second after the bullet strikes I hear the crack.

I roll to the side.

He falls where I have been.

A puff of ice. Another crack.

Preoccupied with Youkilis, Sheriff Briggs belatedly turns to see his deputy lying next to me, the back of his head caved in like a melon that’s fallen off a truck.

Briggs looks at me, sizes up the situation immediately.

“She’s got a fucking accomplice. Everybody hit the deck.”

“What?”

“Hit the fucking deck, assholes!” he yells but only he and Jack fall fast enough to escape the gunman.

A sound like
sssssipppp
and Deputy Crawford gets one in the leg. Gravity does the rest and he’s down too.

Briggs pulls out a .45 and shoots randomly at the tree line.

I count them off.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM
. One, two, three.

“What’s happening!” Jack screams.

“You see anything?” Crawford yells.

“I don’t see a goddamn thing,” Briggs replies and turns to his deputy. “How you doing, buddy?”

Crawford grunts. “I’m ok. Fat shot. No arteries or veins.”

“Thank God. Get your gun and look for the muzzle flash,” Briggs says.

“Shouldn’t we kill her?” Crawford wonders.

Briggs slides his body around to look at me. “Yes, we fucking should.”

Another puff of ice, another crack.

Briggs arcs the .45 in my direction.
Mierde
. I grab the body of Deputy Klein and drag him—
it
—in front of me, blood pouring from the hole in the skull, coating the ice beneath us in a red film. It pools under me, sticky, warm. The .45 slugs punch into Klein.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM
. At this range they could easily burn right through Klein and into me, but I get lucky, they snag on bone and muscle and internal organs.

And then somehow Youkilis gets to his feet. Naked, hallucinating.

“Aaaaggghhh,”
he screams. Guttural, horrifying. He looks confused, hurt. The noise he made scared even himself. His hands are burning him, his lungs agony.

“Get down, you fucking idiot,” Briggs says.

“Get down, Paul, get down,” Jack says.

But Youkilis isn’t getting down. He wants to escape the water, the ice, the hurt.

He can’t. There’s no way ou—

Cunning flits across his eyes when he spots me.
Her
. All this pain is something
to do with her.
“Neaaaahhh,”
he says and comes for me, hands out like Mitchum in that Yuma flick with the kids and the money.

He growls, staggers, trips on Jack’s leg.

“Grab him!” Briggs yells at Jack.

But Jack keeps his head down.

That’s my boy.

Youkilis steps around his boss and lurches closer. He’s going to kill me if he can. He’s going to bring me into his world.

“Get down, you fool,” Crawford says and makes a grab for him. “Jack, tell your fucking buddy to get down.”

But a nearby rifle shot sends Crawford diving for the ice.

I hug Klein like a lover and his body protects me from the bullets and his blood protects me from the cold, seeping into my shirt, coating my skin, slithering into my underwear and down my leg, warming, purifying—as intimate as mother’s milk.

“Faaaking bittch!” Youkilis says, staggering to within a few meters of me.

“Go away,” I hiss at him.

He laughs and is gearing up for the final zombie shuffle when a rifle shot buries itself in his back.

He drops to one knee.

“Faarg!”
he screams, and he looks at me with savage, cold fury.

Somehow he gets back to his feet. Fucking unstoppable. Naked, inhuman, a thing from beyond the grave. I’m afraid of him. And then Briggs resumes firing at me.
BOOM
.
BOOM
. A bullet rips through Klein’s neck and almost gets me, missing my head by centimeters and zipping across the ice. Briggs changes the clip.

More rifle puffs. Youkilis swatting at the bullets like the monster in
Frankenstein
trying to catch musical notes. Finally the anonymous marksman makes the kill shot. A hit behind Youkilis’s ear—the expanding lead rifle round ripping through his eyes and forehead. He staggers on for one more beat and falls on top of Klein.

You did it, you got here.

“Fucker!” Briggs yells, and he shoots the reloaded .45.
BOOM. BOOM
. But now there are two corpses to give me cover.

“We gotta get out of here!” Crawford says.

“The fuck! How? Fucking pinned,” Briggs replies.

“Been watching. It’s one guy, he’s in the trees by the car,” Crawford says.

“Or it’s two guys, taking their time,” I suggest.

“Shut up, bitch, you’ll get yours,” Briggs says.

“If you surrender I’ll make sure they don’t kill you,” I yell.

“Shut the fuck up, you fucking cunt,” Briggs says. “Crawford, can you get an angle on the bitch?”

Crawford tries a shot that plows into Youkilis with a sickening squelch.

“I don’t think so,” Crawford says.

“Maybe we should give ourselves up,” Jack contributes.

“Cut us down like dogs,” Briggs says.

Briggs fires several more at the tree line and his clip runs out again. It holds eight. The bad news seems to be that he’s brought several spares.

A different noise. Thunder. No.

A ripping, tearing, a—

Beneath all of us the ice starting to crack.

“Jesus Christ!” Jack yells, his hands still over his head.

“We’re fucked!” Crawford says.

“We’re not fucked. Keep it together!” Briggs orders.

Another puff of ice. My unknown confederate adding to the mix.

“Fuck it, let’s go!” Crawford says.

Holes appear and water starts gushing up through the ice in frothy freezing bursts. One of the sharpshooter’s bullets skims past my feet. Shit. Was that a mistake? Is he really an ally after all? Is he trying to kill all of us? Esteban, is that you?